


Nightmares

by Monty Python Fan (orphan_account)



Series: The More Things Change [6]
Category: British Comedy RPF, Monty Python RPF
Genre: Blood and Gore, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 23:05:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7660525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Monty%20Python%20Fan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Terry has a  nightmare about that awful night.</p><p>Timeline: September 1970</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmares

As Gilliam went racing past his and Graham’s booth, Terry knew something was seriously wrong. They had both been watching Gilliam and John as they talked by the bar, and he knew something was wrong, but he didn’t know what. Staggering slightly, he got to his feet and followed after Gilliam.

He found him outside, his arms wrapped around his chest, his head bowed.

“Gilly,” he said softly, “what’s the matter?”

“Fuck off, Terry,” Gilliam said, sniffing as he wiped at his nose, and Terry suddenly realised that he was crying.

“What did he say?”

“Nothing! Please, leave me alone.”

“Why’re you crying?”

“I’m not crying!”

Gilliam tried to walk away, but Terry grabbed his arm. They were both drunk, and swayed as they stood out on the pavement, and Terry wondered if he might fall over if he let go of Gilliam.

“Terry, please,” he said, hating seeing Gilliam like this, hoping that using his first name might get Gilliam’s attention.

And it seemed to work. Gilliam turned to face him and looked like he was about to speak, but he never got to, because . . .

Suddenly Terry was being blinded by a bright, white light that penetrated the near darkness from somewhere behind Gilliam. Squinting, he tried to work out what it was, but all he saw was light. Gilliam spun around, and seemed to see something he couldn’t.

“Terry, get out of the way!” Gilliam was yelling, not sounding upset any more, and Terry saw his silhouetted form stagger to the side, stopping right beside him. “It’s a car!”

Suddenly, Terry realised what the noise was. Gilliam was right. It was a car. A car was on the pavement, that was the source of the light, and it was racing towards him.

“For fuck’s sake, RUN!” Gilliam screamed.

Terry wanted to run, needed to run, to get out of the way, but he couldn’t move. His legs wouldn’t respond. He was frozen to the spot.

“TERRY!” That was Gray’s voice, but where was he?

“Fucking leg it, Jones!” That was John. Where were they?

Time seemed to have slowed down, but the car was still coming closer, and he still couldn’t move. Breathing shakily, Terry screwed his eyes up and tensed up, suddenly understanding why people did this in the films, because he literally couldn’t move, and he didn’t want to die looking at the headlights of the thing that was surely going to kill him and the noise was so loud and people were screaming and his heart was racing and tires were screeching and—

And then someone was shoving him, hard in the back, and he stumbled out into the road and tripped over his own feet and went crashing to the ground as he heard a sickening cracking thud from somewhere behind him. Even though he heard the crunch as his arm broke underneath him, and his vision blurred as he banged his head, there was no pain. And then breaks were screeching and there was another thump. And then silence, deafening silence.

And then all he could hear through the ringing in his ears was people screaming. John sounded like he was puking, and Graham was saying, “Terry? Terry?” over and over again, and he presumed that Gray must have been talking to him, because he was the one who was hurt, and no one ever called Gilliam by his first name, so it couldn’t have been him. But if he was talking to him, then how come he wasn’t coming over to him.

He forced himself to roll over onto his back, wondering where the pain was, and saw that his elbow was sticking out at a funny angle, which really should have hurt, but it didn’t, even though he still felt really, really sick.

Through the darkness, he could see people crowding around something, all of them screaming or swearing or something. Beside the cluster of people were Graham and John, who was doubled over, puking all over the ground.

“Get out of the f-fucking way, all of you!” Graham was yelling to the crowd. “Back off, p-please!”

And John was still puking. He only threw up like that when he was really, really stressed.

Suddenly, a woman was in front of him, talking to him, her voice echoing strangely. “Are you all right?” She said, her voice shaking. “Where’re you hurt? Bloody hell, your arm! Shit! Was that your friend? Can you hear me? Hello? Mr Jones? Hello?”

He looked past her, and saw what everyone was screaming about. The car, the same car that had almost hit him, now had a badly dented bonnet and a cracked windscreen, like something fucking heavy had smashed into it, part of the broken glass looking red. What the fuck had happened?

His vision started to blur, the street spinning until it was just a blur of orange lampposts and club signs that made him want to vomit. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and then looked again, having to strain his eyes to focus on the still moving car before him. The woman was still talking, but he wasn’t listening.

Terry’s eyes focused on the driver’s open window, where John had suddenly appeared, and was scraming at the man behind the wheel, who had a very bruised forehead and an airbag pressing against his chest.

“You fucking cunt, I’ll fucking kill you!” John was screaming, trying to throttle the man, angrier than Terry had ever seen him before. “You’ve killed him, you fucker, you cunt, you bastard, you, you—”

“Get off him!” A random man said, grabbing John around the waist and pulling him backwards, as John tried to pull away, still screaming abuse at the driver, the driver who had nearly killed him. “He’s not worth it!”

“Get the fuck off of me!” John roared, and Terry realised that he was crying.

“He’s n-not dead, John!” Graham yelled from somewhere, and Terry saw that he was crouching down behind the car, which was still partially obscured by the cluster of people.

“I’ve called an ambulance!” Another random people said, running out the club opposite the one they had been in.

“Fuck off!” John shouted. “I don’t fucking believe you, Gray, you’re pissed.”

“Listen to me, Mr Jones!” The woman snapped, and Terry, forcing himself to look away from John, who was now being wrestled away from the car by several men, including a bouncer from one of the clubs, saw she was shaking his good arm, her face right in front of his. “I need you to listen to me. It’s important.”

“Wh-what’s happened?” He stuttered, his voice sounding weird, and he realised that he was crying.

His hearing was fuzzy, but he still heard her loud and clear as she said the words that made him throw up all down his shirt.

“Your friend’s been hit.”

“What?” It felt like someone had kicked him in the chest. He couldn’t breathe properly. He threw up again.

“Mr Gilliam. He pushed you out of the way. The car hit him instead. I’m so sorry.”

Despite her protests, Terry stumbled to his feet and staggered over to where Graham was kneeling, the road seeming to rock beneath his feet, his still-not-painful arm clutched to his chest, his vision going in and out of focus, his ears ringing.

He pushed past the crowd and found Graham. He was kneeling beside something on the ground, and it took Terry a few endless seconds to recognise that it was actually a person, their body was so mangled. And then he saw who it was.

It was Gilliam.

Gilliam was laying on the concrete, his limbs contorted, covered in bruises and blood. His left arm was caught under his torso, his shoulder looking flat and angular. His left leg was bent horribly, with what looked like a bone poking through a huge, jagged rip in his jeans, which were now stained red. His shoe had been torn off. His fingers were contorted and bleeding. His satchel was pinned beneath his body. Every exposed piece of skin was grazed, bruised or cut.

And then Terry saw his head. Thrown to one side, his head looked dreadful: his hair was matted with blood, which was pouring blood from a massive gash in the side of his head, which looked oddly dented. There was an expanding pool of blood around his head. Graham’s hands were cradling Gilliam’s poor, broken head, and his hands and sleeves were all soaked with blood. He felt so sick. Tears were falling down his cheeks. His legs were wobbling.

His knees buckled, and then he was falling, falling, falling . . .

And Terry awoke with a start, drenched in sweat, in a heap on his bedroom floor.

“Terry?”

He looked up. Graham was leaning over the side of the bed, staring at him.

“Are you all right?”

He shook his head. There were tears in his eyes. He was shaking.

“Not really.”

Graham reached for his hand and pulled him back into the bed. He put his arm around him, and Terry slumped against him.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

Terry nodded, but didn’t say anything. But he knew Graham understood. And that helped more than he could explain.


End file.
